


Worth More Than Words

by Magnolia822



Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, M/M, Other, Selfies, Texting, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 14:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Written for this Tadfield Advertiser prompt: Crowley finally gets Aziraphale totake the damn smartphone, angel, and Aziraphale knows vaguely that he can send brief messages and photos to Crowley. And SOMEHOW it never occured to Crowley that Aziraphale would find out about sending nudes nor think of such a thing himself. So when he starts getting some very ~tasteful~ (and frequent) naked selfies from the angel he just about loses the ability to control all his limbs.





	Worth More Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta! No offense is intended, etc.

“But I don’t _need_ a mobile, Crowley. I have a perfectly serviceable phone in the bookshop.” 

“Angel, you can only use the phone in the bookshop when you’re in the bookshop. The point of a mobile is you take it with you wherever you go, so that if something happens, if there’s an emergency . . .” Crowley drifts off, the implications of his statement hanging in the dust-mote air between them, air that only two months ago was filled with smoke. He doesn’t think it’s too much to ask for Aziraphale to make this small, tiny, inconsequential concession, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate either. He hesitates, starts to pocket the mobile again, but Aziraphale lets out a dramatic sigh and holds out his hand. 

“Oh, very well then. Give it here.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“Crow_ley_.” 

Crowley offers what he hopes is a nonchalant smile and hands it over. Aziraphale takes the device and pokes at it, frowning, and Crowley feels the thrill of victory deep in his bones. 

“Let me show you how to make a call.” It’s all he can expect Aziraphale to do—that and the most basic texting. Still, it will be enough in case of emergency, if Heaven or Hell, or both, decide they want to pay another visit.

“Very well, my dear.” Aziraphale sits next to him on the sofa in his tiny flat, closer than he used to, but still not close enough, in Crowley’s opinion. They are moving slowly, inexorably in that direction, but neither one of them has been brave enough to bridge the gap quickly. Crowley would, but he he’s still a bit gun-shy from the whole ‘you go too fast for me’ thing, even fifty years later. He’s content, for now, to go at Aziraphale’s pace, though at this rate the glaciers will have melted before they’re an inch closer to each other on the sofa. 

Crowley unlocks the phone and gives Aziraphale a basic tutorial, showing him how to store and find contacts, exactly one of which is currently programmed on speed dial, and how to access the internet browser. Aziraphale listens, nodding benignly when Crowley pulls up his own number and sends a text. 

“There,” he says, showing the message as it appears on his own phone. “You can message me whenever you want. Send a picture, even.” 

“A picture?” 

Crowley shows him the camera function. For all he invented the selfie, Crowley isn’t a huge fan of taking them. He’s never really been entirely comfortable with what he sees in the mirror, or the camera lens. His human form is a collection of angles, of hard lines and sharp corners; it’s not particularly pleasing to the eye, no matter how he dresses it up. No, he’d much rather look at Aziraphale, as he is now, and as he has ever been—the fine lines on his forehead, the emotive lips, the glint in his eye that shows there is more than a little bit of bastard in there, underneath all the softness and light. 

The travesty of it all is that Crowley has no pictures of Aziraphale, save the joint portrait Leonardo had done of the two of them hundreds of years before. It’s lovely, captures the essence of Aziraphale completely, but it’s also locked in Crowley’s safe. Not the kind of thing you want to leave lying about for anyone to find.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, eyes lightening up. “I think I understand.” He holds the phone just so, and the flash nearly blinds Crowley. “There we are.” 

“Angel.” 

“Perfect.” Aziraphale smiles down at the photo, which is the two of them: Aziraphale with his mouth half open in surprise, and Crowley with a frown. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and his yellow eyes stare back unblinking. 

“I didn’t mean take a picture of _me_,” he says, looking away. “I meant other . . . things.” 

“I’m practicing.” Aziraphale says primly. 

“All right. Well. I guess I’ll leave you to it.” 

He slips out of the bookshop just as a customer arrives. Aziraphale’s groan of frustration is audible even on the sidewalk, and Crowley smirks. Why Aziraphale persists with his cover story even now that they’re cut off from Above and Below, Crowley has no idea, but he’s managed to whittle his opening hours down to about one per day, so that’s something, at least. 

He sighs, staring up at the old familiar sign, but in the back of his mind he still sees flames licking out from the windows, smoke spilling out from the door in monstrous tendrils of black. It’s going to be a long time before the memory of his panic and devastation on that day fades into something more manageable. He does his best not to think about it, but being in the bookshop is difficult. As much as he hates leaving Aziraphale, he needs some time away to get himself in order. Thus, the mobile. 

It was a small miracle to get Aziraphale to finally accept the damned thing, but he has his doubts as to whether the angel will actually use it. He seemed keener than he had been every time in the past twenty years when Crowley had brought it up, however, so perhaps the events of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t finally tipped him over the edge. 

Back at his flat, Crowley is at loose ends. Yelling at his plants doesn’t give him the satisfaction it usually does; he tries to look at his book of Astronomy but loses interest quickly. There’s nothing good on the telly. He grabs a bottle of scotch and is wondering if he should just go back to Aziraphale’s when his phone pings with a message. 

Aside from Hell, only one being has his private number, and that’s who he sees smiling back at him when he opens the text. Aziraphale is sat in his favourite armchair, holding a book to his chest and sticking his tongue out in concentration as he aims the phone. 

_Getting the hang of it, I think,_ says the message that comes quickly after. 

_Looks like it. Well done, angel_, Crowley sends back. For the rest of the day and into the night, he finds himself absently checking his messages far more often than necessary since hardly anyone knows his number. He chastises himself and goes to bed, but in the morning when he checks, there are more messages than he can count, timestamped at increasingly close intervals throughout the night. 

_A: Crowley, what are you doing, my dear? I’m feeling a bit peckish, so I thought I’d help myself to some of that artisanal prosciutto you brought over the other day, but it’s all gone! Am utterly bereft. _

_A: Second plan: I’d forgotten about the Swedish chocolate. It’s perfect with Earl Grey. _

_A: Aren’t you supposed to be answering my messages? Isn’t that the correct protocol even in these strange modern times? Didn’t you invent this process? _

_A: Oh I forgot, you’re probably asleep. _

_A: I quite like this mobile. Did you know there are little animals and people you can put in your messages? The pig is simply darling!_

Crowley snorts to himself as he continues to scroll. Aziraphale’s messages are . . . cute. They’re horribly cute, and it’s almost like the angel is right there in the room with him, nattering on as he usually does, making a mockery of texting etiquette with correct punctuation and all. 

Another message comes through, this one current. Crowley blinks, not sure he understands what he’s seeing, and then his blood runs hot. It’s a photo—a selfie, to be more accurate—and if not for the unmistakable fluffwhite hair, Crowley would swear it wasn’t the angel at all, because instead of his customary Victorian jacket and waistcoat, Aziraphale is wearing a robe—a tartan robe, but a robe all the same. And the robe gapes slightly at the chest to reveal a broad expanse of pale skin, smattered with blond hair. There is even a hint of a pink nipple partially obscured by the ridiculous tartan. Aziraphale is smiling his customary angel smile. 

Not since Rome has he seen Aziraphale in anything so . . . well, skimpy, by the angel’s standards. Crowley suddenly feels dizzy. He’s glad he’s still lying down. 

_Thought I’d take a nice long bath this morning_, comes the explanatory text seconds later. 

Crowley is in a state. Why, why, why would Aziraphale tell him something like this? Send him this picture? And what in the world is he supposed to _do_ with this information? 

_Don’t drop your mobile in the water_, he texts back quickly, because safety first, and then he waits, for what, he has no idea. 

_A: I’m not an idiot, Crowley. I know it’s dangerous to drop electrical gadgets in the bath. _

_C: I know ur not an idiot_

_A: What is a ur? _

_C: YOU’RE_

_A: Oh, you millennials and your abbreviations. _

_C: Abreves. And I’m not a bloody millennial, angel_

_A: :-)_

No more messages are forthcoming, so Crowley heaves himself out of bed and miracles on a new outfit, then goes to make some strong coffee and decidedly not think about Aziraphale soaking in the bath. Of course, that proves to be rather difficult when about ten minutes later, he receives another selfie of Aziraphale actually _in_ the bath. 

Crowley spits out his coffee. His heart, which normally beats in a lackadaisical manner to match his stride, starts hammering against his ribs. 

The picture doesn’t show anything explicit; Aziraphale’s lower body is fully submerged in a cloud of bubbles, but his torso is bare, nipples pink and erect. The camera is angled down, and Aziraphale is looking up. His expression, which one would think should be coy, is entirely innocent, his eyebrows slightly raised as if to ask for approval. Crowley thinks he might actually discorporate from lust. 

_C: Angel, what are you doing?_

_A: Taking a bath, you silly serpent. Obviously._

_C: Obviously. And sending me pictures?_

_A: Selfies. Isn’t that what one is supposed to do?_

Crowley coughs and runs his hands through his hair. His cock is very interested in the proceedings, but it feels almost indecent to be getting aroused from something meant so innocently. He can’t really help it, though; he’s been waiting for six thousand years and he’s a demon, after all. 

He’s still trying to work out a reply an hour later when his mobile buzzes again. This time, Crowley really does fall down on his knees. 

Aziraphale is wrapped in a towel, but just barely. The fabric clings to his full hips, and there are droplets of water still obvious on his skin, trailing from his chest over his round belly, and—Heaven smite him now—down to the darker patch of hair just above his waist. He is standing rather than lounging, and for a moment Crowley wonders if Aziraphale could have learned about thirst traps, because his own throat is suddenly parched. 

_A: All clean ;-)_

_C: For Someone’s sake, Angel_

_A: You don’t like my updates? _

_C: Your bloody updates are distracting! _

_A: Is that all? _

_C: No. What do you want me to say?_

Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear, then disappear. Crowley prowls about his apartment like a caged animal, eyes glued to his phone like it’s a winning lottery ticket and he’s a human down on his luck. There’s nothing he wants more than this, if this is really happening. 

_A: If you don’t know, you’re not as smart as I thought you were, my dear._

Another picture comes. This one . . . Crowley hisses out a gust of breath and nearly turns into a snake on the spot. 

Aziraphale is naked. Fully naked, and he is on his bed, curled slightly on his side. The positioning is almost demure; Crowley can’t see Aziraphale’s bits, only the plush line of his hip and the curve of his backside. His arm is propped up behind his head, and his eyes look directly into the camera in what can’t be anything other than a challenge. Crowley’s pants, which have been distractingly tight for the last several hours, are almost painfully constrictive now. He has never been so aroused. 

Nothing has prepared him for this possibility. To say Aziraphale has surprised him would be like saying the Inquisition was a bad few years: the understatement of a hundred lifetimes. 

He studies the picture like it’s the finest art, which to him it is, all the while trying to get his thoughts in order to comprehend this turn of events and determine next steps. Keys. He needs keys, and to get to the bookshop as quickly as possible. He miracles them to hand and strides awkwardly to the door, moving as quickly as his pants allow him to go. 

Another picture pops up. In this one, Aziraphale is swathed in a sheet, his hair dry now from his bath and fluffing about his ears. He gives the camera a cheeky grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Crowley bites his lower lip and almost trips over his own two feet; it’s difficult to saunter with an erection. He hopes he doesn’t run into any humans in the lift, because he’s forgotten his sunglasses and he can’t be bothered to care, even if his eyes have gone all snakey. 

The ride over to the bookshop takes fifteen minutes on a good day. Today it takes eight. All the while, Aziraphale is blowing up Crowley’s phone with tasteful nude selfies of himself around his flat, always tantalising, never showing enough to be truly pornographic: in short, the perfect blend to drive Crowley out of what is left of his mind. He considers whether to send an eggplant emoji back in response but decides against it; he doesn’t want to have to bother with the explanation, though with Aziraphale’s newfound expertise maybe he wouldn’t need to. Perhaps performing all of those minor temptations over the last few hundred years has had an effect on the angel after all. Crowley has never had such wiles focused on him—not even in Rome with the oysters. He doesn’t crash the Bentley out of sheer force of will. 

He parks haphazardly nearish the kerb and flings himself out of the Bentley, surprised his limbs are still in working order after that last picture of Aziraphale in his white cotton briefs which left hardly any room for the imagination. Somehow he manages to get up the internal stairwell that leads to the little flat above the bookshop. Once there, however, he hesitates, his hand hovering in knocking position. He’s not even told Aziraphale he was coming over. 

_You’ve got my attention, angel. I’m here._

Footsteps on the other side, and then Aziraphale answers, wearing all of his clothes and smiling serenely, dusting crumbs off his tartan collar.

“Oh, Crowley, my dear. Come in.”

Crowley realises his mouth is hanging open. He is in a bit of a daze as he follows Aziraphale inside. 

“Angel—”

“I was just about to place a call, but I didn’t want to alarm you if you were merely dozing.” 

_“Aziraphale . . .”_

When Aziraphale turns back to him, Crowley realizes with horror that his eyes are weepy. “I’m afraid I may have miscalculated, my dear, and I apologize if you found the pictures I sent in bad taste.” 

“In bad taste? Aziraphale, I wasn’t texting you back because I was so busy trying to get over here to . . . see you.” He yanks at his hair and doesn’t add, _hoping you’d still be naked._

“Oh good,” says Aziraphale, happier now. “I wasn’t sure if they were working.” 

Crowley almost chokes. “They were working. Very much working.” 

They’re standing close to one another now, and Aziraphale’s cheeks have gone slightly pink. He smells like fresh lavender and bergamot. “I thought they might help speed up the process.” 

“The process?” 

“Well, yes, this process,” Aziraphale says, gesturing between them. “I haven’t been very successful conveying my interest until now, I don’t think. So I did some research. On the internet.” 

Crowley feels his eyebrows climb into his hairline. “Oh?” 

“Yes. Cassidy8761 on the ‘Reddit’ suggested some risqué photographs might do the trick.” 

“For Sssomeone’s sake. You asked a random person on the internet for love advice?” 

Aziraphale looks suddenly uncertain. “Was that the wrong thing to do?” 

“Well, it’s very forward, angel. Provocative, even.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer him. He is close enough to touch, and his eyes dart down to Crowley’s lips in what seems like an unmistakable invitation. “So am I correct in understanding that you, ah, have been provoked?” 

“Ngk—yes, angel, you’re correct. I’ve been provoked. Most profoundly.” 

“And you would like to express your . . . feelings in a physical way?” 

“Very much so. Yeah.” 

“Because you love me?”

“Yeah, angel. Because I love you. Because I’ve always loved you.” 

Aziraphale smiles and curls his hands against Crowley’s chest. His fingers are very warm, and Crowley’s heart is pounding. “And I love you, very much, my dear, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to—”

Crowley shuts him up in the only way he can at that moment, with his mouth. He presses his lips against Aziraphale’s and almost shakes apart as Aziraphale kisses him back. He tastes like tea and the remains of whatever biscuits—maybe ginger—he’d been eating when Crowley had come to the door, and all of Crowley’s senses come alive, sharpening, wanting to feel and smell and taste and touch everything he’s wanted all these years. He wants to remember this, knows that it will be the last thing he thinks of whenever the world finally goes up in smoke. Their arms are around each other, and Aziraphale’s mouth is warm and soft, gasping against his. Crowley lets him in, would give him anything, would fall again and again and again if it means having this. 

“I thought you—wanted to—go slow. I wasss just—waiting . . .” Crowley says between kisses. He knows his eye are all snakey, knows his voice sounds completely wrecked. There isn’t much to be done for it. He can’t bring himself to pull away completely, so he mumbles the words against Aziraphale’s lips and rumples the angel’s hair with bony-knuckled, trembling hands. It’s just as soft as he always imagined. 

He can feel Aziraphale’s smile against his mouth. “And here I was, waiting—I wasn’t sure—you hadn’t ever—asked.” 

Crowley can hardly believe they’re having this conversation at all, let alone having it while kissing. “I did. I asked. Maybe in not so many words, but you knew. You had to have known.” He has lived the last fifty years with a tartan mug in his safe, a reminder of that distance that could never truly be bridged, carefully constructed and maintained by them both. He can’t pass this all off on Aziraphale, after all. He had never pushed, had been far too frightened of scaring the angel away for good with the power of his desire. “It doesn’t matter. Just . . . kiss me again. Kiss me—fuck.” 

Aziraphale is sinking to his knees, his angelic face tilted up, eyes wide. His hands anchor Crowely’s too-thin hips, thumbs circling their bony jut. “It does matter, my dear. It does. But please, let me . . . I want. I want to.” Aziraphale, clever and steady, nimbly undoes the buttons of Crowley’s fly, reaches inside and pulls him out. Crowley is hard, already leaking, and Aziraphale stares at him, running his fingertips over the sensitive skin. 

“You’re so lovely, my dear. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you?” He leans forward to press a kiss to the crown, and Crowley’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. His whole body shivers. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, forgetting to breathe. “You can’t say things like that.” 

“Why not? I’m not _pure,_ Crowley, if that’s what you’re worried about. You aren’t corrupting me.” 

“I just mean if you keep talking like that and touching me, I’ll . . . fuck. I’ll come.” 

“Mmm. Good. I’d like to see.” Aziraphale wraps his hand more firmly around the girth of Crowley’s cock and starts to move, raptly focused. Crowley clenches his hands into fists at his side as he is touched and—Someone help him—licked. Aziraphale’s pink tongue caresses the underside of his cock, right at the frenulum, teasing the sensitive skin, and Crowley wonders if it’s possible to discorporate from a blow job. He hasn’t ever had one before, so he can’t be entirely sure the answer is no.

The fact they are both still mostly dressed somehow adds to the heat of it, but every time Crowley blinks he can see the pictures, see Aziraphale’s pert little nipples, the tantalizing trail of hair on his lower belly, his lush thighs. He groans and, unable to help it, sinks his hands back into the cloudfluff curls, and Aziraphale takes him more fully into his mouth. It’s so incredibly soft, velvet wet. Aziraphale murmurs something around his length, and his eyes flutter closed. He looks like he’s enjoying himself, like Crowley is a treat he wants to savour, and Crowley feels his bollocks tighten, feels his cock grow impossibly harder. Aziraphale’s hands grip his arse through his trousers, kneading it firmly, and Crowley bites his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood. 

“Azira—fuck. I’m so close—” 

He pets Aziraphale’s head in warning, but Aziraphale merely looks up at him with his blue, blue eyes, pulls off, and says in a voice slightly hoarse, “I love you, my darling. Let me taste you.” Then he is back on, taking Crowley deep and moaning as Crowley spills down his throat. 

Crowley stares, unable to look away even as ecstasy overtakes him and spasms rock him from navel to thigh. He tries not to thrust, but his body has a mind of its own. His hips hitch, cock still pulsing as Aziraphale sucks and sucks until Crowley can barely stand and his whole body is shivery with relaxed nerves. When Aziraphale finally releases him, he has a very pleased expression on his face. Crafty, even. 

“You’ve done that before, angel,” Crowley manages. 

“Once or twice. Oh, don’t get jealous, my dear. That was a long time ago.” A faint blush stains Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

_How long,_Crowley wants to ask, _and was it that bastard Wilde?_, but he holds his tongue because he has seen what jealousy does to humans, and he doesn’t really want any part of it, not when he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted. 

Well, mostly. 

“Now you.” 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinks up. 

“I want to see you, all of you. You’ve been teasing me all day. Tempting me.” 

“Hmmph.”

Aziraphale stands, and when they kiss again, Crowley can taste the bitter salt of himself on Aziraphale’s tongue. It’s not entirely unpleasant. He feels himself stir again as he reaches for the fly of Aziraphale’s trousers and undoes the buttons with a fumbling hand, and then he is on his knees, pushing Aziraphale against the wall and yanking down his trousers and pants until the material pools around his feet. 

“Oh, angel,” he sighs out, because what he expected to find is not there, but what is there is just as lovely: a nearly hairless little pink cunt. He slips a finger between the silken folds and hisses as it comes away soaking wet. 

“I . . . I do prefer these parts when indulging in this particular act of lovemaking. I hope you find me pleasing?” 

“Pleasing? Fuck, angel. You’re gorgeous.” Crowley leans forward and gets between Aziraphale’s legs, licking at his cunt with a tongue that has decided to fork for maximum efficiency. Aziraphale lets out a throaty moan as he slides his tongue deeper, rubbing between his swollen lips, seeking out the little wet hole. Crowley hasn’t given himself a vulva in a few years, but he knows what it feels like—aching, needful, wanting to be filled. So he does, using his fingers to give Aziraphale what he needs while he suckles and licks at his swollen clit.

Aziraphale groans, grinding against him, hands tight in his hair, and Crowley pushes his fingers in and out, drinking in wetness, the hot, musky smell of Aziraphale all over his face, all down his throat. His tongue dips inside along his fingers, and Aziraphale’s cunt welcomes it, lets him inside. The angel, who is always warm, is burning up, molten hot and slippery, taking two fingers, and then three. He is so beautiful, Crowley wants to fucking cry. 

His own need demands his attention again, and he gets a grip around his cock to relieve some of the ache while he uses his other hand and mouth on Aziraphale. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale groans, tossing his head back and forth. “Wouldn’t it be nice for you . . . I want you to . . . put it in—”

‘Fuck, can I?” 

“Yes, please. Yes. Inside.” 

There is the matter of shoes and pants and trousers around ankles. Crowley miracles their clothes away, not caring where they’ve gone, and then he is against Aziraphale and pushing inside his slick little cunt. He has done this, once or twice. Never because he really wanted to, only to slake a need, to fulfill a temptation when stakes were too high to fail. He doesn’t want to think about that now. 

Because now that he knows what Aziraphale feels like, he might never stop. He holds on for dear life and snaps his hips in a desperate rut. 

One of Aziraphale’s legs is lifted, giving him access, and he swivels his hips to drive deeper, trying to get the angle right. He must be doing something well, because all the while Aziraphale is letting out breathy little ‘oh, oh’ sounds in his ear, his arms wrapped tightly around Crowley’s neck. With a little growl, Crowley gets his hands under both of Aziraphale’s thighs and lifts, and then they are fucking against the wall with such vigor, Aziraphale’s china cabinet rattles. It’s impossible to kiss, but Crowley puts his mouth wherever he can reach—the little sweet juncture of neck and shoulder, the delicate throat, the soft jaw. Lips press and then release. He slows the snap of his hips, grinding right where Aziraphale needs it, and the quality of the fuck changes, becomes softer but even more intense. Crowley is entirely wrapped up in angel, can’t tell where he begins and Aziraphale ends. He feels like his heart might beat out of his ribcage and set up shop in Aziraphale’s chest.

It can’t last long. Aziraphale stares at him with wide, innocent eyes as he starts to come, his cunt rippling around him, pulling Crowley’s orgasm from him. He drives deep and holds them both as they shake and clutch at each other, their joining finally complete. 

Aziraphale lets out a shaky little laugh as Crowley sets him carefully down, holds him till he finds his footing. Even after, they stand wrapped in each other’s arms, neither wanting to be the first one to let go. 

“So, I suppose what you’re saying is that you liked the pictures.” 

Crowley snorts into Aziraphale’s hair, which tickles the tip of his nose, but not enough to make him move his head. “Yeah. I liked the pictures.” _Best damned thing I ever invented._

“Good. Because I took a few others, a bit more risqué, if you will.” 

“Are you sure you’re not a demon?” 

“Quite sure. Now. Let’s get cleaned up and have something to eat. And I think we deserve champagne, don’t you?” 

“If you’re going to show me those pictures, I’ll get you whatever you want.” 

Aziraphale smiles at him, leans forward to press his lips against Crowley’s, almost chastely this time. “And hopefully, one day, you’ll return the favor.” 

Crowley gapes at Aziraphale as he sashays out of the room, feeling a little like he’s been hit by a lorry, and a little bit like he’s the luckiest being in the galaxy. Mostly the latter. 

He saunters after Aziraphale, not thinking, for the first time in weeks, of fire.


End file.
